The Extraordinary Case of Pete Patterson
by DncingThrghLife
Summary: Set in London during the summer of 1955, the characters you thought you knew of this classic story are re-imagined in a new tale filled with Nazis, snooping inspectors, clever children and one very special young man- who longs to live again.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

The Darling children were most darling indeed. From their brown curly hair to their perfectly polished shoes, most anyone who lived near Number 14 Young Street could agree they were indisputably the dearest bunch. N'er so much a contrary thing could be said about the three children. At least until the day of July 13, 1955.

The street at which the Darling Manor resided at was a short walk from Kensington Gardens, which was where the children spent most of their time; running across the finely manicured grass and playing made up games around the fountains. But it had been a good few years since Wendy, the eldest child, joined in these activities.

Wendy Moira Angela Darling was at the smart age of fifteen, almost at the cusp of sixteen. She prided herself of knowledge and cleanliness. Her hair fell impeccably in ringlets and her school uniform was pressed with precision. She would never once leave from the red front door of her house without looking fully decent. The walls of her large bedroom were stacked full of classic books and expensive paintings. Each page and splash of colour meant something to Wendy. She felt a great sentimental attachment to everything in her beautifully adorned room; but none so much as her window-seat.

The embroidered fabric was worn from years of Wendy sitting upon it, gazing out through the glass barrier from the first floor to the street across from her. When she was young, at the age of seven or so, Wendy would imagine she were a trapped princess and longed for the day when her heroic prince would come and save her. It was an entirely romantic thought, Wendy felt, to be rescued by a handsome man.

At least it was until the years past and her prince never came for her. It was then that Wendy began pouring herself into her studies at the prestigious academy school the three Darling children attended. She soon stopped believing in romantic nonsense. Knowledge was far more important than make-believe. And this, to Wendy, was as clear to her as the blue English sky that filtered though her stained glass window on the morning of July 13, 1955.

The day was promising to be bright and lovely as Wendy slid out of her tall four-poster bed.

"Mer-ow!"The displeased sound of the once-sleeping animal had come from Wendy's cat, Miss Scarlet. She was named for her fiery fur and Wendy's love for the American's cinema _Gone with the Wind_.

"Well, hullo there, Miss Scarlet," Wendy cooed to her cat, plucking her off the cotton bedspread and into her arms. Wendy carried her to the love-worn window-seat then sat and placed the small orange fur-ball in the lap of her night shift. Wendy gazed out her window as she did every day.

She took in the powder blue sky above the buildings then said in a delightful voice to her cat, "I should think it would be a jolly good day. I believe we must leave the window open to enjoy it. "

With this thought in mind, Wendy set about unfastening the brass lock and sliding open the window-pane to start her day without knowing just what was in store for her.

...

At the same time, not far from Wendy's window, a young man was hurriedly pacing down a sidewalk. He searched in vain for an escape. There was none.

With a sharp glance behind him, he saw his captor a few metres after him. The young man lengthened his stride. He couldn't let the other man gain on him.

The chase seemed endless. The two men kept their tight tempo of steps continuous and unchanging down the never-ending streets and alleys. Still, the young man hunted for getaway. Something, _anything_, to avoid getting caught. He couldn't, under any circumstances, be found out. It would mean certain death for him and the others.

No, he wouldn't let it happen. But it had never been this bad before. He had always been able to escape from them, vanishing without a trace. Elusion was his specialty. And now, ten years later, he was finally going to be beaten at his own game.

The captor; he hadn't known was tracking him the entire time he had been in London. All that time; he had been careless, thinking he was at last free. But he was never going to be free. He would always be running for the rest of his existence. And that, in itself, was an infinite amount of years. But the young man had already stopped living ten years ago, so this thought didn't faze him one bit.

Then, _fate_. It had lead him to a prominent street near the flourishing greens of the Gardens where a lone window stood open. He could see the number posted on porch cover: _Number 14_. This was it. This was the house.

Without a second thought, the young man took this opportunity and leapt through the window, not knowing just what was in store for him.


	2. Chapter 2

**All characters belong to the Great Ormond Street Hospital. No copyright infringement is intended. **

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><p><strong>Chapter Two<strong>

"Are you completely mad?" Wendy shrilled. She reached hastily for her white dressing gown so not to be seen in her state of undress by the sudden intruder.

The intruder- a man, but still practically a boy, she could tell- was setting about shutting her open window then promptly pulling the drapes closed. The little light that seeped in the room of Wendy Darling's was now stained with a deep red, the colour of her curtains.

"Mer-ow!" Miss Scarlet said quite displeased to the trespasser. Wendy picked up her cat then placed her on her special shelf in the corner.

"What are you doing? Get out this instant!" Wendy commanded.

But the boy-man didn't obey. Instead, he began rummaging about her belongings. He pulled apart her foot locker and the drawer of her nightstand, searching for something. Then he went to her bookcase in a rush. He barely had time to pause to read the titles on the spines. But something must've caught his eye.

It was a large book that he now held delicately in his hands and Wendy recognised it immediately as her edition of _Grimm's Fairy Tales_. Wendy hadn't read in a good many years, but she could still remember with perfect clarity the tenor her mother's voice as she read aloud from the story collection. Her thoughts turned to a melancholy tune and she wondered with a growing curiosity what this strange boy-man was thinking.

A heavy silence filled the air; the boy looking at the book, Wendy looking at him. Then, in humbled sort of way, a glistening tear appeared in the corners of the boy's eyes. He closed them slowly, as if to shut out a remorseful thought.

Wendy was struck with an apologetic tugging on her heart. But she wouldn't let go of this boy's unsuitable behaviour.

"Boy, what has you snivelling about?"

Whatever nostalgic spell that was put over the boy was lifted in that instant. He dropped the book to the floor then spun abruptly to face Wendy for the first time and she couldn't help the gasp that escaped from her lips.

He looked just like the princes in her fairy tales with wild blonde hair and bright blue eyes. Beneath the aged suit jacket he wore, Wendy could tell he was leanly muscular. But unlike the valiant princes, this boy was weathered with a dismal disposition. It was clear something terribly wretched had happened to this handsome boy. And by the look of it, Wendy didn't want to know what it was.

"Why are you-" Wendy was interrupted by the boy as he launched himself at her. He smashed his slightly dusty hand against Wendy's mouth in an effort to silence her. His blue eyes burned with a desperate urgency as he lifted his free hand to press a dirt-covered finger to his lips.

Any sympathetic feeling Wendy felt for this bizarre boy evaporated in that second. She began trying to squirm her way from the boy, but he grasped her even tighter. A few moments passed with Wendy glaring in an attempt to intimidate; the boy only smirking back with a lifted eyebrow as if to say, _Oh really? Is that the best you can do?_

"Shh...could you at least _try_ to keep your mouth shut?" The boy-man's voice held a hint of youth and a strain of proper British. Wendy squirmed again, but to no avail. The boy's other hand was now wrapped in a death-grip around her arm. The boy smiled (the first time Wendy had seen) in a mocking sort of way and said:

"Are you quite done?" Wendy gave up the fight and nodded in answer to his question. "I need you to listen to me. I know this might be a bit of a difficulty for you, but can you do that?" Wendy only nodded. Then his words spilled out in a rush, as if he couldn't hold them in anymore.

"There's someone coming after me-a lot of people actually-but they can't find me. The consequences would be quite severe if something happened to us. We can't let that happen. Can I trust you?"

_Can I trust you?_ The words seemed to swirl around in Wendy's head as the boy lifted his hand away to let her speak.

_Could he trust me?_ Wendy thought to herself. She began to weigh every alternative.

If she said no, this peculiar boy would be taken back to wherever he came from, and Wendy would never have to see him again. It could be a brief blip in her history as a child.

_But where_ did _he come from? _

If she said yes, she could find the answer to this question. She could...have an adventure. For once in her meticulously planned out life, she could go running away and never come back. It was an entirely romantic thought and Wendy couldn't help but feel empowered by it.

_Me, "Sweet Little Wendy Darling", going off with a strange, handsome boy! _She almost giggled at the idea.

_But what would Father say? He would be furious..._ But the more Wendy thought about it, the more she decided she didn't care. _To hell with Father!_

The boy's eyebrows furrowed. "Excuse me?"

Wendy only then realised she had spoken aloud. "I just... Yes, you can trust me." A smile formed in a giddy way around her mouth as she said this.

With a look that questioned her sanity, the boy started in an inquiring tone, "Do you know if a Dr. Edgar King still resides here?"

Wendy still couldn't keep the smile off her face from the exhilaration of her recent rebellion as she shook her head _no_. She had never heard of a Doctor King...

"This is the Darling residence. My father is a doctor though. Perhaps he could help you?" Wendy offered in a hopeful voice.

The boy looked at her curiously, "What is your name?"

Wendy, still giddy, said quite proudly, "Wendy Moira Angela Darling."

The boy cocked an eyebrow which coupled with the smirk that was quickly forming on his face, "Do they put that all on your letters?"

Wendy was a bit put-out from his mocking comment, "What's yours?"

He paused before answering simply, "Pete."

"Pete?" Wendy was taken-aback. He looked nothing like a Pete. Maybe an Edward, Arthur or Christopher. Something Prince-like. Certainly nothing like _Pete_.

"I simply cannot bear to call you _Pete_," Wendy almost sneered at the name, "You are to be known as Peter and nothing less."

"I am, am I?" Peter smirked once more.

Wendy gritted her teeth at his arrogant manner and stated, "You're rather cocky."

Peter beamed smugly then took a deep bow, "Peter the Cocky, Your Highness. I presume you are the Mistress of Superiority herself, are you not?"

Wendy huffed, quite annoyed at his tone. Who was he to tell her these things? He was just some runaway boy who had suddenly jumped through her window and absolutely no right to be in her room. (Even in Wendy's mind, this scenario sounded quite ridiculous.)

_I had always hoped a handsome man would come to my window. I just never thought it would be an escaped criminal..._

Just as she was about to tell Peter to leave from her bedroom and never come back, a knock sounded at her door.

"Wendy, are you decent?"

Wendy's panicked eyes shot to Peter's as she sucked in a breath.

For at the door were Wendy's brothers.


	3. Chapter 3

**All characters belong to the G.O.S.H. No copyright infringement is intended.**

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><p><strong>Chapter Three<strong>

John Napoleon Darling was more knowledgeable in the theatrical arts than any boy in all of London. He lived and breathed for theatre. At the age of seven, he was able to recite a good portion of Shakespeare's Sonnets verbatim. At ten he could he could name each character and their description from his personal favourites _Macbeth, Othello_ and _Hamlet._

And now, at age thirteen, he spoke and held himself as a true thespian would: with a dramatic flair. He would often go about speaking the entire day in a different accent. (Monday: French, Tuesday: Italian, Wednesday: Russian and so on...)

When asked about his peculiar speech, John would answer simply (with a thick French inflection since it was a Monday afternoon), "Vell, you neva quite know when a sichuation vill occur when you haf tu speek French!"

Mrs. Darling was most puzzled by her eldest son's fascination with the dramatics, but encouraged it nonetheless. If John wished to see a production of _The Twelfth Night_ at the nearest playhouse, then the family would have tickets for the front row. When John would parade down the stairs in a royal fashion ("Why, I'm preparing for my role as Julius Caesar, of course!"), Mrs. Mary Darling would smile lovingly at her son's theatrical antics and applaud approvingly.

As for Michael Nicholas Darling, he couldn't be more different from his older brother. At ten years of age, Michael's only loves were for his mother, his sister and for the esteemed sport of football. While John and Wendy's bookshelves were filled with classic pieces of literature, Michael's were filled with every book and magazine in print on the sport. He could name every player with their positions on the Chelsea Football League (the reigning champions from the year before: 1954) and the promising Manchester United League.

And just like John, if Michael wished to go to a football game, then they had seats for the nearest match.

But unlike John, Michael wasn't quite..._talented _when came to actually _playing _the esteemed sport of football. Anytime Michael attempted to kick the round leather ball, he would end up either on the ground or with a rather gory looking black eye.

In any matter, Mrs. Darling adored each of her children as much as any mother could. She showered her book-loving Wendy, theatrical John and sports enthusiast Michael with her love and attention every day.

For Mrs. Mary Darling was most loving indeed.

Sadly, the same couldn't be said for Dr. George Darling.

Bitter by the war, Dr. Darling spent his time in his study. He only left to tend to his patients and to grace the rest of the Darlings with his presence at the supper table. The children learned at an early age to not bother their father while he was working. Unfortunately, this was a good portion of the hours that they were awake.

Sometimes, Wendy would hear her father at late hours of the night rummaging about in their sitting room then going up to the library on the floor above her. He would stay up there a good while, then suddenly get up and hurry down the stairs and leave out the front door in a flurry of muffled footsteps.

He wouldn't return until just before sunrise, where he would immediately head straight to his study and not come out until suppertime.

Wendy found her father's behaviour most unusual, but said nothing about his late-night departures to the rest of the family.

...

It was the bright Wednesday morning of July, 13 1955, that Michael and John both found themselves in the hallway on the second floor of the Darling Residence.

"Gud morrnig, dearr Mikael!" John said cheerfully to his brother (it was a Wednesday, making this 'Russian Day' as it has been coined in the Darling household).

Michael looked up from his _Charles Buchan's Football Monthly_ he held in his hands to see his older brother dressed flamboyantly in a black suit jacket and a top hat complete with a cane.

Michael stared at him for a second with a look of deep boredom, "John, you do realise it's the summer holidays." John nodded as if this were obvious. "That means that all of this," Michael gestured to John's clothes, "is completely pointless."

John huffed in an irritable way, and then said with his Russian emphasis, "Actorrs nevar stoop forr a mument! The grrat Thespis hemself nevar-"

"Yes I know," Michael interrupted, "you only talk about it a hundred times a day."

"Well I dun't like youu taalking abut dis stuuped Manchester League. Whut arre dey pussibly guing to du dat is sooo imporrtant?"

Michael glared at his brother, "How dare you insult the esteemed sport of football!"

John, most immaturely, nagged, "Ooo, futball is stuuped!"

Michael lunged at John, having enough with his remarks, and clutched at his lapels. The weight of Michael sent John to the floor, flat on his back. He groaned at the force of it then rolled over on top of Michael to get the better advantage.

A few seconds of flailing arms later, Michael gave up, yelling, "Truce!"

John stood up swiftly, dusted of his suit then held a hand out to help his younger brother up. Michael grinned and clapped John on the back of the shoulder, completely forgiving their impromptu brawl in the middle of the hallway.

"I still dink Theeaatre is betterr dan yourr silly futball." John added to get a rise out of his brother.

But Michael didn't flinch at his comment, "Perhaps we should ask Wendy what she thinks and settle this once and for all."

John pondered this for a moment then obliged, setting out for Wendy's room on the first floor.

The two brothers stopped in front of their sister's closed door. This was quite curious, for Wendy was usually quick to wake in the mornings. John and Michael shared a glance, wondering about the same thing.

Michael tentatively knocked on her oak door then asked, "Wendy, are you decent?"

There was a long pause followed by the sound hushed voices and much shuffling about. Then the door creaked open a small bit to reveal Wendy peeking out from behind it.

"Wendy?" John asked most concerned for his sister's bizarre behaviour, his accent long forgotten, "Are you quite alright?"

"Yes! I-I'm fine." Wendy's voice was pitched higher than normal. John and Michael shared another look with scepticism painted in their eyes.

"Wendy, we know something is wrong. Please tell us?" Michael prodded. From what they could see through the minute gap in the doorway, Wendy had turned around to face something behind her and seemed to be talking to it.

"Wendy, is someone in your room?" John guessed.

Wendy spun around and said in a flustered voice, "N-n-no! No one is in here. Why would someone be in here, that is completely-"

But Wendy was interrupted by a deeper voice from behind her, "Oh Wendy, give it up. They're clearly very clever boys. It's no use trying to skirt around this matter. Besides, you're doing a poor job of lying. You'd never last one second as a spy."

There was an immeasurable amount silence that passed through the first floor hallway of the Darling residence. Then:

"Wendy...you _do_ realise there is a man inside of your room. You _do_ know what this means..." John trailed off, leaving the scandalous nature of their predicament for them to determine.

As Wendy was about to answer with a defending comment, another sound came from behind the door. Miss Scarlet. She purred insistently, wanting to be part of the conversation and to be let out of the stifling room. Wendy has no choice but to open the door wider to let her cat saunter out. This caused John and Michael to get a better look of the state of Wendy's room.

John, needing no further instruction, pushed past his older sister and took a deep stride into her room. He assessed the dark room as it were in its condition of chaos (thanks to Wendy's egotistical intruder), then turned in a dramatic full circle to say:

"Wendy, I am most disgraced to see your room like this. It's absolutely—Who the hell are you?"

"John!" Wendy patronized at her brother's language.

But Peter just smiled his self-satisfied smile and stepped from where he was standing in corner of the left side wall.

"I dare say it took you long enough." Peter said pompously. "You are quite unobservant, dear Brother John, are you not?" Then Peter turned to Wendy, "Rule number one: Never give away your accomplice's actual name. Unless, of course, you want them shot down or worse."

Michael now stepped into the room, "What could be more worse than being shot?"

"Many things," Peter answered simply. But the look of his eyes didn't reflect that it was that simple.

John looked him over curiously, "How old are you?"

"Seventeen," Peter answered immediately.

"And what are your intentions with my sister?" John countered. Wendy sighed, most embarrassed by her younger brother's behaviour.

Peter scoffed, "I want nothing to do with your dear little sister. All I want to do is find Dr. Edgar King."

John's eyebrows furrowed. He had not expected that answer.

"Perhaps you should try Harley Street?" Michael piped up; offering the street name at which all established doctors in London lived.

Peter shook his head, "This sort of doctor wouldn't be anywhere near the likes of Harley Street."

"Now I'm curious as to who this mysterious doctor is. What do you need him for?" John questioned, trying to hold his ground.

"This matter is none of your concern, little boy." Peter straightened and gave John the defiant stare he used when dealing with men twice his physical age.

"It _is_ my concern when you're standing in my sister's room!" John argued then quickly added in his Russian accent (since it was a Wednesday), "And I am nut litttle! I am dirrteen yearrs old and trraining to be grrat playarr in a Shakespearrean Trroupe."

"You must not be training hard enough because you sound like complete rubbish." Peter stated.

The atmosphere of the lavish bedroom tensed. John and Peter glared daggers into one another. Michael looked anxiously up at Wendy, silently pleading with her to intercede. And that's just what she did.

"I should think we should all calm down and settle this with softer voices."

Both Peter and John shot her incredulous looks, but Wendy continued, "Perhaps we could come to a...compromise of sorts. I'll be the first to say that I agree with John. I'm quite curious about your doctor, Peter. But that doesn't mean, John, you can't bombard him with questions! It is most impolite. I insist that you apologise this instant." Wendy said firmly.

"But-" John protested. He saw the serious look on Wendy's face though, and subjected himself to the absolute torture of acting contrite and gritted through his teeth, "I am terribly sorry, sir, for insulting you and bombarding you with questions. I do hope you can forgive me."

Peter smiled in his signature conceited way and said with a hint of mockery, "I most humbly forgive you, kind sir. We can't all be as gracious as I."

Throughout this conversation, Michael was trying desperately to hold in his laughter. He'd always strived (as any younger brother does) to see his older brother in a state of humility. He was beginning to like this Peter-boy...

"Those were..." Wendy paused to find the word, "_interesting_ apologies, but acceptable just the same. Now, Peter, I have a proposition for you. What would you say if we asked to help you find your Dr. King?"

Peter looked the children over: the glaring John, the grinning younger one and...the glowing Wendy. Peter's gaze stayed on her the longest. There was something about her, something special, that Peter knew he needed. He didn't know what it was- if it was anything at all- that caused him to feel this way. He knew he liked Wendy Darling; she was quite feisty when she wanted to be and she definitely could hold her own in an argument, a quality that was most important when it came to living in the life that Peter did. She could prove to be a valuable accessory in due time.

But if he agreed to her proposition, then that would mean her two bafoons for brothers would be tagging along as well.

Then, a flash of brilliance came from Peter. He knew just how to get rid of The Bafoons (this was what Peter had taken to calling them) and it came with a trip down to his side of the city.

"I would have to say," Peter started after his moment of contemplation, "that I would gratefully approve of you services to help me find my doctor."

"Really?" Wendy was completely shocked that he would agree. "You mean it?"

"Most sincerely." Peter gave a little bow, but watched Wendy's expressions intently as they changed from astonishment to a fervent excitement.

"Do you hear that?" Wendy took Michael by the shoulders in her elation, "We get to go have an adventure!" Michael was more than a bit startled by his sister's sudden enthusiasm, wondering what had happened to the calm and collected Wendy he knew and loved.

But he wasn't one to complain, for he was just as excited to get out of the house.

As Peter observed Wendy in her happiness, the more he found himself starting to smile a genuine smile. It seemed her cheerfulness was quite contagious for him.

The only one still in a sour mood was John. He huffed dramatically and crossed his arms. "This sounds pleasant and all, but how are we going to explain our disappearance to mother?"

John's comment couldn't put a damper on Wendy's humour, "We'll just tell her we're going for a day in the Gardens. She won't know a thing!"

"What about him?" John motioned to Peter, "How will he get out the house?"

"The way he came, of course. Through the window."

"The window?" John questioned the sanity of everyone that was in the dim room.

"Yes, haven't you ever climbed through a window before?" Peter baited him, "If you can't do something as measly as climbing though a window, then I don't think you're ready for our escapade through London..."

"I most certainly am!" John was infuriated at his assumption. "I'll go with you and you'll see I am quite capable of great things."

Peter tried desperately to hold back his smirk as he caught John right in the palm of his hand.

"That settles it," Peter finalised. "We are to go on a grand adventure today and your mother will never know."

Wendy smiled once more, the brightness lighting up her entire face, and Peter felt for the first time happy about something in his life.

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><p><strong>Please read and review! It would help me a whole lot!<strong>

**Now, I'm not from England (which is probably very obvious to those of you that live there) so, I would really appreciate some feedback and corrections on my British-isms. I'm only trying to write this way because this is a fairytale and is meant to be read with lots of flowery language. I realize that British people probably didn't speak this way in the 50's, but since this is (like I said) a fairytale, I hope you can let all the proper speech slide.**

**Thank you to the very few people that are reading this! You all have a special place in my heart even though I don't know who you are. **


	4. Chapter 4

**All characters belong to the G.O.S.H. No copyright infringement is intended.**

**This chapter goes out to Patrich11-my first reviewer! You are officially my favorite person ever! **

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><p><strong>Chapter Four<strong>

The fresh summer breeze blew through Wendy's hair as their odd troop marched amiably down Kensington Road. Wendy only thought of their company as odd because of the inquisitive looks they received from the Darling's neighbours.

_Did you see those Darling children?... Yes, walking with that dishevelled young man...All of them!...Even little Wendy...I always thought she had more sense than that...Now, I'm not one to talk but..._ Wendy could almost hear the whispered conversations as they strolled down the cobblestone street-walk.

But she simply waved them off; _who cared what they thought?_ Wendy smiled once more at the indifferent tone her thoughts took. She felt as she could get used to this new way of thinking. _Who cared what they thought? Let them talk!_

Peter shot her another curious glance and she realised, yet again, she had voiced her internal notions aloud.

"Look!" Michael pointed, "It's Hyde Park Gate. Can we go in, Wendy?"

But Wendy looked to Peter first, "It depends on where Peter wants to go."

Michael turned to Peter with pleading eyes. Peter though, took a quick peek at Wendy's expectant expression. Not wanting to deny her anything, he quickly nodded in response to Michael's question.

"Yes!" Michael pumped his fist and took off to the entrance to Kensington Gardens faster than Wendy could say, "Wait for us!"

Wendy sighed and bent down to pick up his football magazine that he dropped in his haste. She went to place it into the school bag she brought along when an odd weight caught her attention. She pulled open the bag to find her copy of _Grimm's Fairy Tales_ sitting at the bottom beneath the assorted items Peter had packed.

"Peter, why is my children's book in our bag with our jam sandwiches?"

Peter positioned his face away from Wendy so she wouldn't see the burning red blush that was spreading over his cheeks.

"I know why!" John interjected, pushing his way between the couple, "Because he's a thief! Admit it, Mr. Peter; you stole my sister's book!" Wendy sent Peter an appalled look, wondering if John was right.

Peter didn't notice though for he turned to step in front of John and fixed him with an intense stare, "Never question my motives."

John staggered back as if Peter had laid a hand upon him. He was about to stammer an apology when a loud cry pierced the summer air.

The three quickly ran to investigate the noise which came from somewhere near the gate to the park.

The long centre lane that travelled down the park was flagged on both sides by wooden benches and tall trees. Few people were walking down the lane since it was still in the morning hours. But a lone man sat on one of the benches reading a newspaper. He lowered it to watch the children swiftly pass him by.

The cry came again. This time, though, it was followed by the sound of a boy's laughter. Michael's. Peter pinpointed it toward the right, just behind the line of trees.

Sure enough, there was Michael. But his predicament was most curious: he was rolling on the grass with a giant dog on top of him. The dog barked in a friendly way and Michael laughed back, scratching underneath the dog's ears. Then Michael took notice of the Peter, Wendy and John standing with shocked expressions.

"Wendy! Look, I found this dog! Can we keep him?" Michael hurriedly sat up and patted the dog that lay across his legs.

"Only if he has no owners." Wendy reasoned.

"He hasn't got a collar!" Michael assured her. Wendy knelt down beside her brother and took a turn stroking the dog's shaggy brown and white fur.

"Look at the condition of his coat. He can't be wild because it feels perfectly combed." Wendy commented.

"It's a Newfoundland dog." Peter said knowledgably.

"Can we name him?" Michael pleaded to Wendy. She sighed in a way as if to say _Oh well..._

Without delay, Michael set about contemplating names. Soon all four children were adding their input to the naming game.

"Caesar!" John said.

"Winston!" Peter offered.

"Pilot!" Wendy thought of Edward Rochester's dog from one of her favourite books, _Jane Eyre_.

"Manchester!" Then Michael became side-tracked, "Wendy, I'm a bit hungry. Do you have possibly a banana in your bag?"

Wendy shot Michael an inquisitive glance, "Why would I have bananas? We haven't had those since before the war. I'm surprised you remember. We would have bananas-"

Wendy was cut off by the dog suddenly barking and wagging his tail. His long tongue hung out to the side of his mouth, dripping saliva down his white mane.

"It must've been something you said, Wendy." John deduced. "Like a command or something."

"Banana?" Wendy tested. The dog waved his tail excitedly.

John turned to Michael, "We can't name a dog _Banana_! It's completely absurd!"

"How about Nana?" The dog barked once more and stared at Wendy expectantly. She scratched his neck lovingly with a wide smile. "I should think we should keep him. At least until we find who he belongs to."

No one could disagree.

Then the four children and dog set out to find the missing doctor.

...

The man on the bench watched the young man with blonde hair. He studied the way he moved with a slightly cautious gait and the way he furtively surveyed the area. The man scrutinized the back of young man's neck.

There, hidden in the right-hand corner, was the brand upon his skin. The symbol that revealed who he truly was.

Satisfied, the man on the bench set about folding up his newspaper and exiting the park. He briskly paced to a black Bentley that was parked alongside Kensington Road. He slid in the passenger seat and said to the driver, "We've got him."

Unfortunately, had the children looked further at the man on the bench when they passed him by, they would have seen that his newspaper was written in German and his hands were most atrociously on backwards.

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><p><strong>Please read and review!<strong>


	5. Chapter 5

**NO COPYRIGHT INFRINGEMENT IS INTENDED. ALL CHARACTERS BELONG TO THE G.O.S.H.**

** This chapter goes out to _cowboykelly17_, my second reviewer! Thank you so much for your words of encouragement!**

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><p>Chapter Five<p>

Inspector Charles was always known for being impeccably on time. He took great pride in his perfect punctuality. Even the hardened criminals that Inspector Charles put behind bars would agree he was perhaps the most punctual detective in all of London.

Every day, the inspector would wake to the sound of the three coo-coo clocks mounted on the walls of modest bedroom chiming precisely at six o'clock each morning. He would then start his daily routine of polishing and winding each of his thirty-seven clocks that resided on the walls of his modest flat. Once he finished the other, more trivial, tasks of personal grooming (brushing, washing, shaving and such), he would dress quite sharply in a black tailored suit.

He would fix his tie at exactly 7:04.

He would take the kettle off at precisely 7:09.

He would finish his tea and toast promptly at 7:17.

And he would do this each and every day, without fail. Rain or shine, Inspector Charles was always at a certain place right on schedule.

The morning of July 13, 1955 was no different. The greying inspector polished the clocks, fixed his tie, and ate his tea and toast the same as any day before setting out for his office. It was only when he sat down in his comfortable desk chair in his bureau at Scotland Yard that something seemed out of place from his meticulous routine.

Inspector Charles' small office was quite common to say the least. Plain walls, plain bookshelves, a plain desk covered with stacks of plain papers. The only things that were decently exotic were the hand-crafted clocks that showered the empty space on the walls. Small clocks, large clocks, brown clocks and red clocks; Inspector Charles was indeed, a man of time.

But what was most fascinating about his office was the miniature African crocodile head that sat atop the inspector's perfectly aligned stack of case documents. The crocodile had golden marble eyes that seemed to follow anyone that dared to look into them around the room like a watchful guardsman. Most all of Inspector Charles' clients would agree that the ever-observant crocodile-head-paperweight was quite peculiar.

And that seemed to be the only thing that was sufficiently interesting about the particular detective. His appearance certainly wasn't anything to write about. With his unreadable hazel eyes (that had always tended to be more on the yellow side), his clean-shaven face and perfectly pressed lapels; Inspector Charles seemed like an ordinary detective with an ordinary office living in an ordinary flat.

But Inspector Charles was far from ordinary.

The cases he took were the most bizarre, the most eccentric. _("Do you think you can find the man that has stolen my parakeet?"... "Could you possibly track down a Nazi scientist that has been testing for an immortal elixir of life?"... "Is it too impossible to ask to find my missing Aunt Gertrude who disappeared without a single trace except for a bottle of gin and a nail file?")_ Besides his perfect punctuality, Inspector Charles second-greatest pride was his ability to solve the strangest mysteries. He had found the parakeet and the missing Aunt Gertrude. They had been returned safely to their homes with nothing more than a few pulled feathers and a broken nail. And the perpetrators were also caught and had been incarcerated for unknown number of years.

Only, he hadn't secured the Nazi scientist just yet, which only made this case much more personal to the knowledgeable detective. The fact that this insane scientist seemed to elude him at every corner only spurred the detective on even more. As soon as he got a lead, it would suddenly be covered up. Inspector Charles had travelled all over the British Isles trying to find this man.

His only information was that the suspect was a _Hauptsturmführer_ (or a Captain in the British equivalent) named Jakob Hoon who oversaw the prisoner experiments at the Auschwitz concentration camp. There was an ongoing manhunt for this particular war criminal and Inspector Charles was one of many who had been specially called to capture him. There were rumours he might have been hiding out somewhere in South America, hunkering down but still pledging allegiance to the S.S. But those, of course, were just rumours. Inspector Charles had recently gotten a tip from an unkempt young man with a thick Romanian accent that _Hauptsturmführer_ Hoon was in fact residing in London, not at all near the likes of South America.

While the British Intelligence was out scouring through Brazil, Inspector Charles stayed in his native city, hoping for another lead to point him in the right direction.

He kept his notes and profiles of each of the suspects closest to him. The numerous papers would lay at the top the pile of case documents that rested beneath the crocodile head. Not a day would pass without the detective making a small scribbling of a note about the circumstances surrounding the mysterious _Hauptsturmführer _Hoon.

But luckily, the clever detective had taken on a few "fluff" cases to occupy his time when he wasn't tracking down the Nazi scientist. The regular homicide, serial killer, missing persons or robbery: the easy ones.

But on the morning of July 13, 1955, a simple homicide was far from the inspector's mind as he sat down in his brown leather armchair. Immediately, his sharp eyes spotted that his perfectly aligned stack papers had been shuffled less than three centimetres and the crocodile head had been rotated about ten degrees toward the western wall.

In less than a second, Inspector Charles calculated the odds of his papers being moved by a natural phenomenon. Not one to believe in a slight coincidence, the sharp detective reasoned that the only possible way for the papers and the crocodile to be moved were if someone had been rummaging about through his desk.

After a quick inventory of his most important files, he found that something had indeed been moved. Moved permanently.

For his profile of the infamous _Hauptsturmführer _Hoon was missing.

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><p><em><strong>AUTHOR'S NOTE:<strong> _There really was a _ Hauptsturmführer _(Captain) at the Auschwitz concentration camp. You probably know him as the infamous Dr. Josef Mengele who preformed horrendous human tests and experiments on the prisoners of the camp. He was known for his fascination with twins, dwarfs and the disease _noma_ (the disease that was wide-spread throughout the children of the camp). He escaped persecution for his crimes by fleeing to South America, where he spent his dying days always looking over his shoulder to avoid being caught. He was never found until June 6, 1985 in Embu, where his remains were exhumed and identified. This war criminal is very much dead, but the memory of his "science" lives on with those who had endured and survived his tests.

**PLEASE READ & REVIEW!**_  
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